L.A. Confidential Read Online Free PDF Page A

reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don’t be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn’t even in my league.”
    â€œSo what’s stopping you from doing the story?”
    â€œThere is no story.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damngood to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper’s dirty laundry.
    â€œOr maybe you do think it’s out of your league?”
    â€œNot hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

2
    T HE M ANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.
    Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.
    Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”
    Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o’clock on the dot. “Is he—”
    â€œRunning late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”
    Great. Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.
    As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more looking like she needed work. So much so that she’d almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn’t worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn’t justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.
    Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she’d received her best friend Greg’s message that he’d landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa’d spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn’t destitute. One thing she’d learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.
    Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair,her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she